


i don't believe that man's ever been to medical school.

by pissyellowcrocs



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: ALSO>. rick speaks in italics. Not literally. i mean, Coercion, F/M, M/M, Medical Torture, Medical Trauma, Other, Unrequited Love, also i think rick... eats people. out of curiosity and necessity, i don't need to explain myself. Next, i'm not that happy with this but i gotta move on, it sounds like he speaks in italic small font., outlast - Freeform, teeth horror, vaguely... listen. Listen to me.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:41:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24602527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pissyellowcrocs/pseuds/pissyellowcrocs
Summary: They say you learn something new everyday. There's going to be a whole lot of shit you'll want to unlearn when he's done with you.
Relationships: Richard Trager/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	i don't believe that man's ever been to medical school.

He stood close behind you, looking over your shoulder as he rested his hands firmly upon your wrists. In one of your palms, sat a scalpel, the other, empty.

“Now y' _see_ -”, he starts, breath warm and foul as it ghosted over your upper cheek. “-it takes a gentle, but firm touch. You gotta really... _mean_ every movement.” Words are said languidly as if it were a Sunday afternoon, and he were just about to take a sip of his morning coffee. It would have been almost charming, had it not somehow come across as a very subtle threat.

Your hand hovered over the man strapped to the gurney below you, his eyes blown wide with confusion and fear. It was clear that whatever state of mind he was in, he didn't completely comprehend what was going on at the moment, nor what would happen to him shortly thereafter. Richard had informed you, after some encouragement, that this 'patient' used to be one of his coworkers, and that he was ‘ _getting the quality medical treatment he deserved_ ’. You weren't sure you believed that. 

It looked like this one had already undergone enough mutilation as it was already, legs having become bloody, haphazardly bandaged stumps, fingers missing from his hands. The gauze that had been flung over his wounds was soaked through and through, and he smelled disgusting - as if he were rotting, while still alive. The man trembled under your gaze, and reciprocally, you trembled under his.

“Your cuts 've got to be steady ‘n long, like a- like the _smooth_ stroke of a brush. You feel me?”

You barely notice, but your head very slowly nods in understanding, and you weren't certain that you wanted to do this. 

His wrist moves to position your hand near the middle of the trapped man's upper torso, tip of the dulled scalpel pressing into the flesh of his chest, but not yet breaking skin. Whoever he really was, he seemed to get the implication, and began to strain wildly against his bindings in a frenzied panic. You would have flinched, had Richard not forced you to stay in place.

“ _Stay still.”_ It's low, a deep rumble, commanding and irritated, and you're not sure who exactly he was saying it to. The sudden difference in his tone makes the hair stand on the back of your neck, the last wisps of reasonable thought desperately trying to tell you to make a run for it as soon as you got the chance. 

“ _Whew_ , looks like this one's still got some fight in 'im, that's always fun. Just like... _fishing_.”

He speaks as if he's a veteran at this, tearing people apart and putting them back together again, playing God and making creatures of his own design; and it more than unsettles you. True, you are enamored with him, but you are equally terrified, if not, moreso. You have a feeling he knows this, and relishes in it.

His untrimmed nails dug further into your wrists as you made an attempt to adjust the position of your hands, and it's starting to hurt, though you aren't certain if it was intentional. The patient continued to struggle against his binds which only cut deeper into his skin, thrashing his head from side to side in a last ditch attempt to break free - one that _failed_ , of course.

“I’ve met people who hate the doctor’s office, but this is _ridiculous_ . I mean, he'll tire out eventually, but look at him _go_ . Since we can’t hang around here like sitting fuckin’ ducks, what _you're_ going to do in the meantime, is - ”, he pushes your hand holding the scalpel further into the chest of the thrashing man below you. The cut is shallow, knife stopping after coming in contact with his breast bone, but he yelps in pain nonetheless- not that you wouldn't have.

“Good, _good-_ ” And you feel your chest swell at the praise, “- all you gotta do now is- ” He adjusts his grip upon your wrist, and pulls the scalpel further, deeper down the man's torso. As soon as the scalpel had cut a vibrant, jagged red line down to his ribs, Richard stopped, and released your hands. You notice that he broke the skin, ten tiny red, bleeding crescents dotting your wrists.

“There y' go pal, you get the idea! Keep up th’ good work and you'll make a _wonderful_ nurse.”

The man is screaming, as you drag the scalpel down the rest of his torso with shaky fingers. It's hard to hold your tool now, grip loosened by foreign blood having tainted your fingertips. You can't hear anything aside from your own blaring pulse in your ears, and you think you might be crying, but you're not sure- _what the fuck were you doing?_

As the man's mouth lay open for a moment in silent agony, Rick takes the opportunity to point, with one bony, dirty finger, at the man's toothless mouth. His gums are still bleeding, and some look infected, pieces of residual teeth still stuck in them.

“Keep in mind we _do_ have dental. This guy had some bad cavities, _real_ uglies - so I took the liberty of getting rid of that issue, and, in the process, any other potential ones. Plus, I got a new set of dentures. If that doesn’t convince you, we also have other numerous workplace benefits, a nice retirement package, etcetera, etcetera. Not to mention, it’s a … _very rewarding_ work environment.”

His words barely register with you, still focused on dragging this implement through muscle and sinew so you can get it over with. You stop just below the man's belly button, above the last few remaining strands of his sagittal hair. It's hard to discern where there is and isn't blood, but you're pretty sure that your hands are coated up to the forearm, and you swear that some got in your mouth. 

It's like you're swimming in it. 

Everything tastes like metal. 

**Everything smells like shit.**

Part of you- most of you, wanted to walk into the nearest bathroom, and heave all the contents and some more out of your stomach, but the other part of you, understood the appeal. The only thing you could manage to do was turn to face the man you were pathetically trying to please - or maybe appease, you weren’t sure anymore. He’s sitting on a medical cart, watching with obvious amusement, his legs swinging back and forth, like a child sitting on a swing. You stare.

“Want me to take the reins now, huh? Guess I can do that.”

Richard stands, and takes a few steps toward the man, still yelling, but with far less energy than before, and digs a hand into the gash you made. The tearing of flesh was far too audible, a repulsive squelch, but you remain unfazed, transfixed on the way red cascades down the sides of the gurney, making small pools around around the wheels. The new stains blend together well with older smears and trails dried on the floor, the occasional brown or yellow stain adding some variety to the mix. The longer you stare, the more it looks like an abstract modern painting made by some rich prick who would claim that it 'represents the lives of those in the lower class', or whatever. It's a welcomed distraction. 

Though you try not to look directly at the scene, you could see the outline of Trager's fingers inside of the man, five unnatural bulges beneath the skin, rummaging around. Looking for something. You can taste the vomit in your mouth. The look in his eye changes from one of focus, to one of triumph, as he very abruptly tears his hand out of the man in a burst of gore, carrying with it, a liver. The poor soul's screaming grew in intensity for one last moment, enough to awake another patient further down the hall. 

Richard holds it up to a dim light, inspecting it as if it were a precious gem, rubbing a thumb against the tissue. He murmurs something to himself, waves a couple fingers around in the air - counting, perhaps. 

“Oh _yeah_ \- this is a nice one - would y’ _look_ at that color? Somethin’ like this is bound to fetch a pretty penny- or at the very least, a filling lunch.”

The organ glistens gruesomely under the flickering hospital light above, and he places it squarely on the dying man's chest, turning his attention to you. You let out a breath you didn't know you had been holding.

“Wow, well _aren't you a natural?_ ” You can't tell if it was an honest comment, or if he was mocking you. It doesn’t matter; you don't have the mind to care at the moment. “I don't know if I'd call you _'doctor'_ material just yet, but what I can tell you, is that with a lotta practice, and a _little_ suckin' up to your boss- ”, you think he made an attempt at waggling his remaining eyebrow, “- a little initiative never hurt anybody - I think you got a _bright future_ in our company.”

He rests a blood caked hand upon your hip from behind, and places his chin on your shoulder like he belongs there. Maybe he does.

**Author's Note:**

> hey! hope you liked this! comment if you did, perhaps? requests are always welcome, and my fiverr is https://www.fiverr.com/share/7jr4QE for any commission requests; my main social media is vomitkink!


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